


Black Dirt

by canofwhoopasstiel



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artists, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gun Violence, M/M, Multi, Non-Binary Hange Zoë, Romantic Fluff, Tattoos, Trans Armin Arlert, Violence, artist!jean, mafia, mobster!marco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-20 12:17:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2428418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canofwhoopasstiel/pseuds/canofwhoopasstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you're a shitty artist just barely keeping your drawing grade above a C, you think your life fucking sucks. But when I met Marco Bodt, I realized that things could definitely be much worse.</p><p>This is the story of how the heir to the city's largest Mafia fell in love with me, Jean Kirschtein.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Suits

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's back?  
> Back again?  
> *eminem plays*
> 
> Yeah, so I never wrote that fluff chapter for [Nothing Left to Say](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1424521/chapters/2993725)...but here's a gangster/artist au instead.
> 
> merry halloween everyone. 
> 
> P.S This might end badly so please, if you can't handle that sort of thing be careful.

Only art students know how fucking shitty being an art student is.

All the math and science majors thought we had it so easy. "Oh yeah, you guys just draw a person and you get an A+. You have it so easy! Haha, we have the real tough job! Doing formulas and math and shit! _AHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!"_

Well, _fuck_ those guys. It wasn’t like that at all.

I was a drawing and painting major at Trost's one and only post-secondary art school, Stohess University. It was pretty small. Pretty shitty. We had three buildings. _Three_. We had one in-house coffee shop (that is always out of coffee), a book store/school merch store (aka one mug and a single t-shirt) that was smaller than the broken, two stall bathrooms, and only one lecture hall.

I was only in second year and I already wanted to kill myself. Well, not really (although, the thought did pop up every once and a while). I was just saying that I was stressed.

Don’t get me wrong, I knew those math people had a lot of shit on their plate, but artists got it just as bad, maybe even worse. I tried explaining this once to a chemistry major once. Got a split lip, but you should have seen the other guy.

First of all, art students were more likely to be depressed than other students. In fact, my school had more mental health issues than any other university in Trost. But I didn't fucking know that until I got to this goddamn school.

I was sitting in the subway on my way to my 8:30 am class, complaining internally because that’s what _crazy_ people do. I resisted the urge to flail my arms around for dramatic effect about an _internal conversation I had with myself_.

See? _Crazy people_.

It’s too goddamn early for this.

Just thinking of the ungodly time made me grind my palms into my eyes. I got onto the subway when there weren’t too many passengers so I got a sweet seat, but with a 36 by 36 inch painting taking up the seat next to me and about half the fucking subway car, I regretted it. At least if I was standing I could make an easy escape. Now I had to maneuver through the growing mob of people gathering on the train to get off on my stop with a colossal painting. My critique was in 30 minutes and my painting hadn’t even fucking dried. And it was done in _oil paint_.

Did anyone even know how fucking long it takes for oil paint to— _ugh, never mind._

I was lucky I managed to even put on my pants on straight this morning. I was lucky I even remembered to take the goddamn painting out of my house. I was always forgetting shit.

_…And where was I? Art students have it bad…blah blah blah…life sucks…_

_Oh yeah, AND ANOTHER THING—_

At that moment, a woman in a suit nudged my canvas with her handbag roughly, not even bothering to turn her perfectly permed head in apology. I quickly checked to make sure nothing had smudged, and fortunately for her it was fine. (Well, fine being a subjective word. My painting was shit. The assignment was confusing and vague, so knowing me I probably did the exact opposite of what my teacher wanted. They were fucking nuts.) It took all my inner strength not to slam her head through my canvas: the image of a child jabbing a straw violently though a juice box came to mind. I glared at the back of her head.

The fucking Suits.

They were everywhere _._

Everyone knows them; those business people with a cup of Starbucks in their meaty hands wearing those suits 24-7 that say, “I’m 40 with two bratty kids and I have a stronger connection to my Blackberry than my spouse.”  They come in all shapes and sizes, but they're all the exact same. Men and women, with a fucking suit and fucking blackberry and no fucking sense of how fucking long it takes for oil fucking paint to fucking dry.

 _Watch your language,_ came a voice in my head that annoyingly sounded a lot like my friend Armin.

_Breathe, Jean. You are calm. You are Zen. No more inner ranting to yourself. That's lame. Just take it out on Eren when you play Halo with him tonight. Yeah. Good. Think of playing video games. Not art. Not the Suits. Not how your teacher is going to rip you a new one in 20 minutes._

_Think of—_

Suddenly I noticed a really hot ass. The kind you'd want to take a picture of, turn black and white and frame on your wall. Yeah, booty game strong. Asses like that only come once in a lifetime.

And it belonged to a fucking Suit.

A guy in a suit.

Being queer sucked. Being queer in art school was helluva lot easier but not great. Half the school was gay. So I shouldn't have a problem right? Wrong. If you were straight, okay, whatever. If you were gay, there'd be a strange look that passed over them while it sunk in, “Oh, you're one of _those_ art students." Eventually the look would go away and everything was alright.

But the second you mentioned that you're not _entirely_ gay, that became a whole other fucking story. Not straight enough to be straight, not gay enough to be gay. It was like the world’s biggest joke all on me.

It had perks though. Being pansexual meant I got the pick of the crop, and by going to an art school, man, did I ever have _choices_. Everyone there was either ridiculously hot, ridiculously creative or ridiculously pretentious.

Watch out for those ones. They’re a nightmare.

So yeah, I noticed the cute brunette girl sitting across from on those crusty subway seats me (right past the jerkoff Suit with the handbag), but the Hot Ass in a Suit was the finest thing I’d seen in a while. He was standing in the centre of the car, one hand stretched above him to grab a handle and his shiny leather shoes were set in a wide stance for stability. He looked to be in his early twenties, a surprisingly young age to already be one of the Suits. I saw his profile a bit and all I could make out from my position was a jawline sharp enough to cut a man’s throat and a splash of freckles like ink spatters on paper.

I groaned inwardly. I had a thing for freckles. I was so fucking weak.

I adjusted my red beanie and looked down at my hands, ashamed with myself. _Get a hold of yourself, Kirstein. The suit is probably an asshole that would kick your painting if it got on in his way on the street. Fucking suits and their—_

Oh shit.

He looked at me.

His eyes were the color of ground coffee beans: light roast. Purplish circles under his eyes made him look weary, but the clever alertness of them made me think it didn’t affect him. His lashes were long enough to brush his speckled cheeks if he closed them, but he didn’t. He met my stare.

Hot Ass in a Suit didn't smile at me, but didn't frown either; he seemed more curious as to why an exhausted art student with badly bleached hair and paint smeared skinny jeans was staring at him.

I wondered if he knew he was hot.

We broke eye contact for a moment while we came to the next stop; people excused themselves past him and I got a good look as he swiveled sideways to let them by. You could tell just by looking that his warm grey trousers and jacket were tailored to fit his body perfectly: cinching a little at the waist, even with it unbuttoned. The white dress shirt underneath was lined with ruby red suspenders and crowned with the same colored tie. The ensemble could have been pulled straight from a 1920’s mafia movie, but classier. This wasn’t an ordinary suit.

 _He_ wasn’t an ordinary Suit.

I averted my gaze to the floor before the eye contact got uncomfortably long. Then I heard the annoying three tone beep and the doors opened again. My stomach dropped as I realized this was my stop. I sprang up, snatched my backpack and slide between the doors just before they shut. I exhaled.

_Holy fucking shit. My painting._

I turned back in horror, eyes probably bulging out in panic. There it was: the painting that was worth 50% of my grade right in front of me with a thick pane of sleazy subway glass between us. I tried to pry the door open, but the subway started to move and stupidly I tried to keep up. I could feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes when I made eye contact with Hot Ass in Suit.

He held up my canvas —from the edges so it wouldn’t get smeared— and smiled. At this point I was jogging to keep up, but I still saw him point in the direction the train was moving and mouth the words, “Next one.”

_He wants me to get off at the next stop. He’s going to wait for me._

I nodded gratefully, and probably a little frantically and slowed my pace, watching as my final grade and the sexy guy traveled farther away down the tunnel. My sneakers shuffled the grungy surface of the platform to face the opposite opening. As I waited for the next train, I remembered the warm look he gave me and resisted a smile.

_Not coffee: whiskey. His eyes were like aged whiskey._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I repeat, this might end bad. I don't know yet, so if you can't handle sad things you might want to stop here. Chapters are going to be short at first but they'll get longer probably. This might be a long fic or a short one.  
> We just don't know.  
> It's a mystery.
> 
> Either way, I've been planning this for a while and I hope you guys like it!!^^
> 
> Come bug me at [my tumblr](http://canofwhoopasstiel.tumblr.com/) for questions or anything. I also track the tag fic: black dirt so if you want me to see something use that. :)
> 
> Comments and Kudos are appreciated!!!^^


	2. Call Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is super short, but I'm going to update today or tomorrow so... *shrugs*

My foot tapped quickly against the floor as I stood in the train car waiting for the next stop.

_He has to be there. He has to be. If he isn't...Oh shit I’ll be so screwed. Shit shit shit. Please be there, Hot Ass. Please._

I resisted the urge to groan out load. The old lady sitting next to me was already giving me strange looks as it was. I guess my dishevelled, paint splattered look wasn't grandma approved. He said, “Next one.” Didn't he? Or maybe he said, “Necks won” or “text gone.” Yeah, Jean, because that makes _so_ much more sense than, “Next one.” _Whatever_ , I told myself, _I'm just going through the list of possible things that Hot Ass in a Suit could have—_

The subway started to slow and I started bouncing on my heels, staring out the window of the doors waiting for the platform to appear. Slowly, light from the station filled the windows and I peered out, looking for the grey suit that held 50% of my grade.

We slowed.

We stopped.

I rushed out and scanned the sparse crowds of people moving past me desperately. Nothing. The guy wasn't here. Hot Ass in a Suit wasn’t even here.

 _He jacked my fucking painting. What the fuck was a Suit like that going to do with my shitty art? Not use it to get a fucking degree, that’s what. I’m going to fucking fail my class if I don’t have that painting. Hanji isn’t going to let me redo it._ I could feel angry tears prick at my eyes and I curled my hands into fists. _If I ever see that fucking freckled face ever again I’m going to punch him right in his stupid face and—_

“Hey.”

I spun around and saw a flash of brown eyes before I was already swinging my fist towards the smooth voice. My arm locked in place as the man in front of me jarringly caught my hand in his with reflexes that could rival Mikasa's. My face was hot with anger when I realized the guy who was holding onto my wrist was none other than the freckled faced Suit who stole my painting.

He was even prettier up close.

"Hey," he smiled warmly, not even bothering to comment on the fact that I almost punched him in the face.

“...Hey...” I said slowly and lowered my hand, but he didn't let go.

He glanced my hand, which was still in a fist. “Are you going to try to hit me again?” His voice was amused.

I blanked and looked at my hand. “Um, no, I guess not.”

He released me, the smile still on his face. “Good. I hope you don't treat everyone who helps you out like this."

“I...um.” My face burned, but for a reason other than my previous anger. “No…I thought you stole my painting.”

He held up the huge canvas by the backing and studied it. “I wouldn't steal it. If anything, I'd buy it off you.”

 _Wait. Did he just...He would buy my shitty painting? What?_   I decided to ask out loud.

Hot Ass in a Suit laughed a little through his nose. “Yeah, I like your painting. Are you in school?”

“I go to Stohess. It's a project we had to do,” I answered automatically. Wow. I sounded like the most boring person ever.

Hot Ass scratched his check with one finger and looked back down at my mess of panting. It was a self-portrait sketched out in the most irritating and unconventional place to ever draw something ever: in a tree (my Prof was fucking crazy). It was a tangled mess of cubist lines and bright colors that was supposed to “represent how much my mind was in deep turmoil and constant confliction, emphasized by the contrasting colors and harsh brushstrokes.” Or, I was too lazy to do realism so I did this instead.

“It’s a self-portrait…it’s not supposed to look like me,” I explained poorly.

“You’re right…You’re much cuter,” Hot Ass in a Suit said absently.

My face burned even hotter and I stared at my shoes. “Oh…Um.”

He looked embarrassed for a moment before he raised his eyebrows endearingly and exclaimed, “Oh! I guess you should take this back.”

For a guy who was hotter than sin in a suit, his personality didn't seem to the fit the image.

“Thanks.” I scrambled for something to keep him here longer. _Name. You have a name._ “I'm Jean."

“Marco.” His voice was like velvet. Hot Ass—I mean, Marco held out his hand. I hoped he wasn't one of those guys who shook hands like they had something to prove, and crushed my skinny, weak artist fingers into an aching pulp. Like, control your testosterone please.

He didn't. His large, callused hand was gentle on mine, and it felt more like he was holding it than anything else.

I dropped it and blushed, embarrassed by what I was about to do. I reached into my pocket and grabbed a permanent marker I kept there just in case I needed it. One never knew when you would need to vandalise a bathroom stall with, “Jean was here,” or draw a French mustache on a sleeping victim (Eren).

 I leaned my painting against my leg and grabbed Marco's hand. In shock or curiosity, he allowed me. I yanked off the cap with my teeth and wrote down my number. I could feel nervous sweat drip down my back.

“Call me.” I tried to play myself off as confidant and cool, but I probably came off as a loser. Oh well. It was worth a shot. Hot A— _Marco_ was really cute and I wanted to see him again.

Marco stared at the numbers on his hand in confusion and then a quiet sadness. His eyebrows drooped in disappointment.

I tried not to panic.

He opened his mouth several times before saying quietly, “I…probably won’t call you. I'm sorry.”

The subway that was going to take me to my station pulled up and I grabbed my painting, my heart racing, and called back over my shoulder with fake confidence and a wink, “Then text me.”

 

As the doors shut and the train pulled away, I watched as Marco stood with his palm open, like he wished I could take the numbers back. Like he wished he never picked up my painting. Like he wished he never met me.

I smiled when we made eye contact, but it faded as my view of him vanished and I zoomed away into the darkness of the tunnel.

 

~***~

 

Marco stood on the platform with the cute artist's number written on his palm. He watched as the ink bled into the cracks of his skin, marring the pretty handwriting. He watched at the train sped away and thought to himself grimly, _this won't end well._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, yeah, so there's going to be Marco POVs. But they'll be in third person so no one gets confused as to who's talking. I always hated reading that.
> 
> Come bug me at [my tumblr](http://canofwhoopasstiel.tumblr.com/) for questions or anything. I also track the tag fic: black dirt so if you want me to see something use that. :)
> 
> Comments and Kudos are appreciated!!!^^


	3. Happy Tree Friends

“They had me up in a tree, with a fucking 36 by 36 painting, drawing a self-portrait of my mental state of mind while absorbing good vibes from the nature. What the hell kind of assignment was that?” I complained loudly to my friends.

Eren laughed, “I don’t know but I’m curious; how did you get out of the tree, Jean? Crack your head on the way down?”

I scowled and gritted my teeth. "I didn't fall out, if that’s what you mean. I threw the canvas down first.”

He snickered, "Are you _sure_ you didn't fall—”

"I did _not_ fall, Eren!"

Mikasa sighed and glanced between us. “Give it a rest, boys.”

We were sitting in the Fuck Tuition Cafe. Apparently our Student Union had a sense of humor, because yeah, _fuck_ tuition. We all drank tea because there was literally never any coffee, and if there was, it was gone before we could get any.

Eren, Mikasa and I all went to Stohess. Why Eren decided to become an artist was beyond me. In high school, he never said a word about doing anything artsy. It was like all of a sudden he woke up from a wet dream with this inkling that hey, “I want to do sculpture for the rest of my life!” Not that I particularly cared about what he did, but it was just weird. I thought he'd at least go to school with Armin down the street from Stohess at Shiganshina University.

After high school, Armin, Sasha and Connie went there to study. Shina U was a top university and everyone expected Armin to go there for science, but what was more surprising was Sasha and Connie’s determination to go to university rather than collage. Sasha was in Culinary Arts and Connie was a Literature major; no one thought it was strange that even in post-secondary they came in a pair. Perhaps the least surprising thing from our group was that Mikasa waited a year for Eren to graduate high school and followed him. She said it was her own choice to become a graphic designer, but I know at the back of my mind, and probably everyone else’s, that she only went because of her little brother.

But she was at the top of her class and got more than enough of her fair share of compliments from teachers and students alike. Even I had to admit, she was a talented artist. Then again, she didn't have crazy part time teachers giving her insane projects all the time.

“I'm serious,” I exclaimed. “What kind of messed up person sends their entire class up into trees to draw self-portraits. Without a mirror? Hanji is fucking insane.”

"I heard from Armin that their teaching methods in biology are unique but effective. Maybe you just aren't paying enough attention," Mikasa said, taking a sip of her tea.

"No, I _am_ paying attention. Maybe if they would decide on a profession instead of going back and forth between two schools, they would have more time to teach us properly.”

“I think you're overreacting,” Eren commented irritatingly. “It’s probably really easy.”

I stood, hands flat on the table. “You try sculpting in a tree, Eren! _You just try it!_ I bet you couldn't do anything _half_ as good as what I came up with.”

He sprang up to the challenge. “Fine! I will!"

“Fine!”

“ _Fine!”_

And that’s how Eren and I ended sixty feet up in a tree with two blobs of clay, arguing over what the “energy from nature affecting your metal state” looked like. Hanji would be so impressed at all the extra work I was doing.

When Connie, Sasha and Armin finally showed up after their class, Mikasa was sitting under our tree sketching out a logo for a fake company while we dealt with pine needles stabbing us in the back. We had stopped arguing a while ago and had just given into the process of creating. Making art was usually not a loud practice: it was quiet, giving into the parts of yourself that wanted to create something from nothing.

“Hey, tweedle dumb and dumber!” Connie voice rang out from below us.

I looked down to see Sasha put a hand on her hip. “You guys going to come down?”

“Happy tree friends!” Connie shouted again. “Get out of the motherfucking tree.”

I glanced at my hideous clump of clay and thought about throwing it at them. I didn't. “Yeah,” I yelled. “Right after I beat Eren.”

The guy in question stared at me and showed his clearly better sculpted face. “You were saying, Kirschtein?”

I swatted the lump of clay in his hands but he pulled away faster than I could follow. “Oh, no you don't.”

“It's not fair,” I glowered at him. “You're a sculpture student.” He _knew_ the only thing I was good at was painting and drawing, and yet he still challenged me to sculpture. In a tree.

_And I was dumb enough to accept._

“Is that a problem?” he smiled innocently.

I exhaled in frustration and looked at my mini sculpture. Hanji always said never to throw anything out: it was the mistakes that made us improve as artists. And yet, I still wanted to smush that stupid piece of clay into the stubbly branch under my butt. I called down to Connie, “Alright, alright. I'm coming down.”

By the time I got to the bottom, my hands were sticky with sap and muddy with clay. Eren clambered down behind me and presented his obnoxiously superior sculpture to our friends. Sasha and Connie gave me two identical shit-eating grins and compared the lumps of clay.

It was quiet for a second and I waited for the other shoe to—

“So Jean, is that supposed to be a troll or your face? Because I find it hard to tell the difference.”

Sasha nudged him and tapped a finger on her chin. “Yeah you're right Con, that looks more like a disfigured potato than anything. It's making me hungry.”

“Everything makes you hungry, Sash.”

“But Jean’s sculpture looks like—”

“O- _kay!”_ I shouted, trying extremely hard not to smash the clay in my fist. “I get it! I fucking _suck_ at sculpture! Can we all just move on, _please_?"

Eren laughed and patted my back, which I flinched under. “No problem, Jean. No problem.”

We ended up in the park by Shina U; the six of us just lounging together. While Eren was trying to perfect his clay face and Mikasa worked more on her logo design at the picnic table, Armin, Connie, Sasha and I sat in a lopsided circle on the yellowing grass a little bit away from them.

“I don’t know, Jean. Hanji has always been really good at what they do. I like them. The teaching style is unorthodox, but you can tell they're super passionate about biology,” Armin said, daintily wiping away mustard from his mouth with a napkin as he finished his sandwich. He had another one tucked into his cardigan, just in case anything dripped.

“I get that. I just don't understand why they have to teach art too.” I started ripping up grass, making a neat pile in front of me. “Like pick a side already. No one in art school gets your science jokes, and no one wants to spend five hours in a tree drawing. I can only imagine what kind of torture they have in store for the last assignment. It's something about a bean. A _bean_? What does that even _mean_ , Armin!?”

He looked at a loss. “I have no idea. But at least you don't have Levi as a math teacher.” Armin shook his head and sighed. “He's brutal.”

Sasha crunched a chip in her mouth and asked, “But I thought you loved math.”

"I do. It's just...a lot of work.”

Connie leaned back on his elbows. “Well, sucks for all of you. Erwin is the best lit Prof I've ever had.”

Sasha poked him. “You’ve only taken two literature classes so far.”

He waved her off. “Yeah, yeah, but he's the best.”

Armin scurried to a kneeling position suddenly, with a gleeful glint in his eye. “Did you hear about Professor Erwin and Levi though?”

Connie and Sash shook their heads.

I found it hard to care about a bunch of professors I've never met, but this sounded a little interesting; I decided to stay rather than ditch and go draw with Eren and Mikasa.

“I heard that Levi and Erwin...are engaged.”

Connie's eyes widened and Sasha’s potato chip fell from her hand. “What?! Dude! No way!” Connie exclaimed.

Armin nodded furiously, "Mhm! I heard Levi on the phone after class talking about a church and something about how he didn't want anything too high profile.” Armin blushed a little and continued, “Then he said, ‘love you too, shit stain Smith.’”

“Smith. Like Erwin Smith,” Connie gaped.

Sasha picked her chip off the floor and ate it. “So weird.”

A little tired of feeling left out, I commented slyly, “Speaking of getting engaged, what about you and Eren?” I nudged Armin’s arm and he turned bright red.

“Jean!” he whispered, daring to cast a look at his best friend. “Not so loud! He'll hear you!”

“So? It's not like you two aren't practically married already,” I shrugged nonchalantly.

Connie and Sasha nodded.

I pointed at the two morons next to me. “I mean, look how long it took for these idiots to get together—”

“Hey!”

“I resent that.”

“—and they're perfectly happy—”

“True.”

“Preach, brother.”

“—so just ask the poor guy out already,” I finished.

Armin was blushing like crazy and I resisted a snicker. He was too cute.

“I...no...guys...come on...”

Sasha groaned and flopped down on the grass. “Just tell him Armin. He likes you too.”

“He definitely…” He looked over at Eren, who was making a really stupid face as he tried to add details on his clay eye. His tongue was sticking out unattractively and his forehead was wrinkled in concentration. I had no idea what Armin saw in that buffoon. I shook my head. But if they were going to be idiots, they might as well have been idiots in a relationship.

“Just tell him. Please. It's annoying everyone that you aren't together.” I lay down beside Sasha, whose hair was being played with by Connie. She swatted at his reaching hands.

“He wouldn't…” Armin’s voice was soft and sad. “Because I’m not...a _real_ guy. I'm just a girl—”

I snapped my head up and Connie and Sasha stopped joking around. “You are a real guy Armin.” I said severely. “And Eren doesn't care about that. He's an idiot, but not a bigoted idiot.”

Armin nodded. “...Okay,” he said in a small voice.

I could practically hear the SpongeBob narrator voice in my head saying, _“Twenty thousand years later, they get together.”_

“So...Jean,” Connie drawled from the grass. He had continued playing with Sasha’s hair, gently tugging out the elastic. “What about you? Any news on the romance front?"

I blushed a little thinking of Marco. _The Suit on the subway...that didn't count, right?_ “Um...no?”

“Ouh, who is it?” Armin perked up immediately.

I’m pretty sure my face looked like a stop sign by now. I ripped up more grass. “Nothing! Nothing!”

Sasha threw her crumpled up chip bag at my head, her hair now loose around her head. “Tell us or we’ll tickle you.”

I stilled. They would do it too.

I added more to the grass mountain. “There was just this guy on the subway that I gave my number to.”

“A guy? On the subway?” Armin chirped. “What's he like?”

“I don’t know...freckles...pretty hot…wore a suit...”

“Whoa!” Connie sat up, abandoning the braids he was making in his girlfriend’s hair. “You fucking hate the suits! What's different about him!?”

I looked at my neat little grass pile. “Everything…Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” I scattered the blades of grass and pressed my hand against the remains. “He won't call. He said so.”

Armin patted me comfortingly. “It's okay Jean. Maybe you'll meet someone at Krista's party this weekend. Ymir's having it at the bar so you'll have plenty of chances to meet someone new.”

“Sucks that she has to bartend at her own girlfriend’s birthday party,” said Connie.

“I heard it was the only way she could pay for Krista’s gift,” Armin said.

Sasha asked, “Which was?”

I shivered at the possibilities, “God only knows what that woman bought her.”

“I bet it was a sex toy.” Connie gave the worst sort of smile.

“ _Bad_ mental image.” I rubbed my forehead and Armin flushed.

Sasha winked at him and whispered behind her hand, “Definitely a sex toy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a double update? But with a few hours in between? *shrugs*  
> I hope you guys like this chapter! Next time we'll see Marco again!
> 
> As a side note: I realize this writing style is different from [NLTS](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1424521/chapters/2993725/), but it's my first time trying first person POV and it's very hard for me. I hope you guys will understand. :)
> 
> Come bug me at [my tumblr](http://canofwhoopasstiel.tumblr.com/) for questions or anything. I also track the tag fic: black dirt so if you want me to see something use that. :)
> 
> Comments and Kudos are appreciated!!!^^


End file.
